


sunrise

by mosscoveredking



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underswap (Undertale), Angst, Eventual Romance, Family Loss, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Regicide, Surface timeline, but they've all got So much trauma to work through first, eventual polyamory, good brother edge, lust is hearts, oh yeah baby here we go!!!!!!, stretch is a (mostly) good brother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26343451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosscoveredking/pseuds/mosscoveredking
Summary: after an ambiguous amount of death and one narrow chase, red finds himself under open sky and, eventually, in strong arms.blue captures a potentially dangerous stranger and benefits in ways he didn't think possible.hearts kisses the open wounds and finds himself enveloped in true safety and acceptance.
Relationships: CherryBerry, Lustberry - Relationship, Red/Blue, Sans/Sans (Undertale), blue/hearts, blue/red/hearts, hearts/red
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	1. daybreak

**Author's Note:**

> detailed and (very) spoilery warnings in end notes. this one's heavy but not every chapter will be like this. enjoy!!!!
> 
> beta read by the ever-lovely lohrendrell!! thank you so so much for your patience and positivity!!

No one is born with sharp teeth. Parents begin cutting and filing as the teeth grow in, their actions smoothed out with healing magic and the intent to protect, so that their child will always have a weapon. Through blood and chips of bone, strength emerges.

Red was six when he figured this out. It was with bite marks in his arm and a too-tiny brother on his back that he scavenged the dumps for sharp tools and shards of mirror. The mire had come up to his sternum in spots, tugging his bones with freezing, oily hands, and the bottoms of the waterfalls called his name if he listened for too long. The hands of a six-year-old, particularly those sticky with mud and their own gore, are not meant for cutting teeth. Particularly those of little brothers who thrash and kick. So Edge gathered up all the courage and dignity that a two-year-old could and tried not to writhe when big brother made him bleed.

At eighteen, Red started his job in the lab. The position didn’t pay as much as the other jobs he’d held, but it kept the dirt off his knees and the dust out of his joints.

He was almost nineteen when a stranger blew into the throneroom during a meeting with only himself, Alphys, and Lord Asgore (and the devoted guards that never left his side, the paranoid bastard). His face was split, his coat was made of the fabric between stars, and he was almost as tall as the King, impossible though that sounded. His words were axes in their understanding of everything.

The god brought with him a garish contraption and tales of a web between universes: a network of trade, peaceful relations, and altruism. He told them that the other kings and queens would be happy to help them procure a safer, sturdier environment. 

Lord Asgore’s response was explosive and the machine was locked away in the very basement of the castle. The public was never informed of the visitor or the transporter, and Red was lucky to escape the interaction with all his bones intact. Alphys could not say the same. Red was sure the guards with them that day were disposed of, though he would never say anything of it. 

Red doesn’t know how old he is now, nor the last time his birthday was noticed. It’s been years since he stepped into New Home and he quite liked it that way. Things were bad in Snowdin, animosity staining the ground and tainting the air, but nothing could compare to the city streets he grew up in. Edge seemed almost happier here, although Red could never be sure. One could never smile, never look upon something with a mirthful peace, lest someone else see and try to take that for themself. Edge knew this intimately, so it was anyone’s guess if he was truly made happy by his position in the Royal Guard. Red thought he’d known.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

The words dropped like gravel into the blackened room, the bite struck out of them through repetition. Blood flowed through old fractures as rivers carving the Earth, but it was sticky, hot, suffocating. The sick-colored lamps didn’t reach as far as they should, like the darkness is starving for it, and it made the gore black and the walls green. Blurry was the dark couch his brother lied on, the medical kit heavy and too light on his lap, and his hands were numb to the cool, wet metal of the pliers. Edge warred for each breath he took - he was born into this world fighting, burning, maiming because he needed to, and Angel forbids him to have a moment of ceasefire. He kept his jagged teeth clenched shut and every sharp response trapped behind them.

Working for the guard was dangerous. It puts one on a pedestal for all the kingdom to study and, for higher positions, provides dangerous wealth. Fame was exposure, the reason for the thick armor on Edge's back and the scars disfiguring his skull. As Captain of the Royal Guard and heir to the throne (not that Lord Asgore would ever, ever dust - the very thought was treasonous), Edge had the most exposure to the tyrant. He was an angry god, irrational, the embodiment of feral panic and detached rage. He could give the highest of praise to a guard one day and stake them down the next, disembowel and display as a warning to all blasphemous minds.

The air in his throne room was thick with dust. Red’s bones felt coated with it, like he’d been buried under generations of corpses, and his ribs _itched_ when he inhaled. A hundred monsters shuffled around him, unarmed, hostility and terror writhing under fur and scales and skin. The entire Guard had been crammed into this room, overgrown flowers and the remains of strangers packed underfoot. Lord Asgore sat heavy on his throne, looming over the crowd. Every sentry, scout, and watchman in the Underground was here against their will and all better judgement - who knew what kind of chaos the kingdom had succumbed to already - but when Lord Asgore summons, one does not argue. 

Edge stood before the king and in front of all his inferiors . Even with his abnormal height and Lord Asgore sitting down, the despot towered high above Edge. His glare was calculating, maroon eyes studying Edge from a tenebrous visage. Edge was a bowstring pulled taut, his shoulders back and spine stiff. Red watched from the crowd of low-level sentries and saw how firmly his brother kept his hands clasped behind his back, digging his claws into his forearms.

Undyne stood at his shoulder with a similar posture. Every eye was trained on the three.

The king was speaking now, voice low and scathing. Red couldn't make out anything over the roar of magic in his skull and the panic crushing his chest. He could guess what the king was accusing, anyone could, but the agony came in the fact that it was true.

It had been the plan since day one. Get close, seize the throne. Not out of want in any way, but because it was a necessity - the Underground couldn’t go on like this. _Someone_ needed to save this kingdom from tearing itself apart.

But to have it laid out in the air like this for everyone to know and touch and defile, in front of the king, _by_ the king - it was impossibly different than the hushed whispers in their own home, the knowing glances traded only in private, the papers kept locked in chests under floorboards, the late, late meetings held by flashlight in Undyne’s home.

Red couldn’t see Edge’s face. Lord Asgore, the god, ruler, and death of all monsters, started to stand up. It was petrifying.

But Edge was ready. Of course he was. He has been since he stepped foot in the throne room with his whole guard behind him, since this morning when the summonings went out, since he accepted the rank of Captain, since he got into the Guard, since the marshland wet his back and he swallowed blood and bone. 

So why wasn’t he moving? Why wasn’t he attacking first? How could he only stand and watch as Lord Asgore rose to his full height?

Red couldn’t move either. Every nerve screamed, begged to throw himself between his brother and this tyrant, but he was rooted like the flowers had grown over his boots and between the bones of his legs. Crimson flashed, surreal - Red didn’t know where the weapon came from nor when it appeared. 

Edge had stared into death’s face before, but this was a different breed of demise. This was the dust of a hundred thousand monsters before him, the stare of a complete loss of hope, the closest thing to a real deity he would ever, ever see. 

So it made sense that this would be paralyzing - not that it made Edge’s response any easier to forgive.

Lord Asgore didn’t seem the type to move quickly, not with all the muscle carried under his pelt and the centuries of war tolling his soul. Perhaps they were seeing things right and he really was as cumbersome as he looked - not that it mattered, not that any amount of reasoning could change the outcome, not that any excuse would numb the wound.

The tyrant struck his heir down.

Red felt it in his own chest and leaped. The vines tore, his fibulae snapped, the flowers ripped beneath his boots and he split spacetime. It was all a flash of agony, the white hot burn of the brand, dull sawteeth on his joints, every night terror bursting the ground to eat him alive, to eat _Edge_ , to hold them down powerless and rape every dream.

The world was a blur of crimson and fire and fury, fury, fury, of hatred deeper than the instincts that kept him moving, that took over where every thought failed, that jumped not to keep him alive but to protect what was his. 

The first thing he truly saw was the cherry red fabric in his hands. Gore black as night coated his hands, speckled with stark white ash.

The world filled in around the edges very slowly. It was gray. He could see the buttercups under his hands and knees now, but they’d never been so white before. He clutched the scarf tighter and pulled it to his chest; as the fabric trailed the flora, it left streaks of yellow. 

The earth had him in a vice grip. He’s never been one for suicidal tendencies and there was no sense in starting now, his body demanded. It wasn’t safe to rest, not ever. So he planted one foot under him and then the other, trembling and not at all present. Edge’s scarf stayed clutched in his right hand. His soul and mind stayed buried underneath the dust and flowers. 

Undyne turned her piercing stare on him, all the scrutiny missing from her usual look. They were the only two left in the throne room, and Red could almost convince himself it was safe to crumple back into the ground. Lord Asgore was dead. The realization was a stab wound in his mind, but so much blunt-force trauma had just occurred that he didn’t even feel it. Lord Asgore had died; Red watched him, saw his soul fracture and bleed and turn into nothing. Undyne had dealt the final blow.

It was she who carried the weight of his LOVE. It shone in her yellow eye, neon and feral, hungry, detached, terrified. She was looking at him like he was a threat, like he was going to try to take this newfound power away from her. Or perhaps it was just that he was the only one left to test it on. 

Red wasn’t a coward. He fought brutally, mercilessly, dirty, and he didn’t fear LV if it meant he and his kin would be safer. He was nothing if not a quick judge.

Dust plumed in his wake, his brother’s and dictator’s and strangers’. Undyne reached for him and snarled something desperate and enraged, but he was already gone.

He thought suddenly of the web and the split-faced stranger ten, fifteen years ago, and the void spat him out near the dungeons. Not that he believed whatever lied past that threshold was truly what the man had spoken of, but it had to be better than what the new tyrant had in store for him.

The sting of the air and the impact of his feet on the ground, the blood and dust clogging every joint and making his knees scream, the clang and scrape of spear and armor on stone - it meshed together in gore and dirt until he looked up to find himself somewhere else entirely. The machine was smaller than he remembered. 

He didn’t feel panicked anymore, only hollow. Like he’d been bruised, wrapped up in gauze, electrical tape holding homemade splints to his bones and a blanket keeping him pinned to the couch while Edge, Edge-- he shut that down, focusing on the icy metal beneath his claws, the chrome switches and buttons he smeared blood onto.

There was nothing left here except falling into the earth and becoming mud. The thought wasn’t attractive even now, even with his soul shredded up and aflame, so he forced his hands to work. 

The machine’s function felt similar to teleportation, in which the void swallowed him for the briefest of flashes and he threw himself back out at his destination. He had no control over his exit now; it felt as if great hands had clasped around his being. He couldn’t resist it if he tried. 

Once firmly outside of nothingness, buttercups were the first thing to reach his senses. His body desperately wanted to pass out, but the smell dug clawed fingers into his throat and nasal aperture and _pulled_. Golden petals coated the ground like ash and snow, an impenetrable blanket of flora in every direction.

He retched.

“Child?” a clement voice called from across the vast garden. He whipped his head toward the source and immediately reeled from it, acid and burnt magic splattering the ground. 

Very tentatively, she took a step forward. Red shuffled back and fought to get off his knees, false stomach still rolling. Her shoulders were made to look wide by the armor she wore, and an unstained robe hid most of her body. No curling horns, no mane, no bilious decoration. The smallest of crowns sat atop her head, the only insignia of power, and she lacked everything that made Red’s ruler who he is-- was. 

“Sir,” she said and took another step forward, exuding diplomacy and beginning to raise a paw.

She opened her mouth to say something more in that low, old voice, and Red glimpsed fangs. She took the tiniest step forward, out of shadow, and her eyes were no longer maroon but crimson and blood and fire. Red was pinned among the shadows and buttercups.

Fifteen, twenty minutes was a horribly long time to be running solely on adrenaline. He swore he saw a flash of cherry under the ruler’s coat, that same gleam in her eye and fear in her voice, and his body made the decision for him. 

Her visage changed the slightest amount before he disappeared, launching himself in and out of the void. His feet skidded across whatever ground he’d landed on and his chest collided with another monster’s. They stumbled to the ground and called out something, but he was already making another leap. He didn’t know the terrain; he could end up suffocating in a wall or falling to his death at one misstep, but he didn’t hesitate. He kept going, forcing through the pain of his screaming magic reserves. 

The crunch of snow welcomed him after the final jump and he collapsed into it. It was freezing cold heaven on his flaming bones. He didn’t feel material, like he was halfway dust already, yet he didn’t have the energy to be terrified anymore. The whirlwind came to a halt, the trees encasing him gradually straightening themselves.

You’ll freeze out here, he told himself. You’re close to Falling already. You don’t have the energy to keep warm, it’ll happen in your sleep. Your bones will be frozen over if you do wake up, and what then? Who knows who could find you like this, alone, alone, alone… 

He felt the fabric of Edge’s scarf in his hands and closed his eyes.


	2. tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *feral raccoon noises*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/cw for some very unpleasant injuries! more details in the end notes.

Blue’s a teacher now. The calling of Best Royal Guardsmen has been put out of his mind entirely. Yes, really. But when his queen, no matter how much the title means, needs help, he will always be there. When the news got to him that there was an unidentified, possibly malaligned traveller in his neighborhood, he suited up and left the house. Stretch only tossed a wave and a lazy “be safe” over his shoulder. He doesn’t worry for Blue. He’s awesome like that.

They didn’t have Undyne’s cameras like back in Snowdin, but that was no matter. (Definitely. Certainly. Blue and the others can do it, without a doubt.) The bite of winter air was nostalgic and comforting, and an excuse to get out of the house (a way to help Toriel) was always welcome.

They’ve been on the surface for a little over a year. This is his second winter. There’s a forested area just west of his house, closer to the mountain, and Blue names it a good starting point.

The sky is not quite dark enough to reveal the stars (of which there would be plenty this far from the human city), but it isn’t even dinner time yet. It’s not that Blue felt he would be back by seven, but rather that he was happy and prepared to stay out into the small hours of the night. 

After almost tripping on a gnarled root, he realizes that they should really be doing this in parties. That’s how humans do it - groups of four at the minimum, that way if one of them gets hurt, someone can stay with them while a pair goes for help. Monsters, despite having been on the surface for some time now, are still used to the underground way of doing things, meaning that Blue’s all on his own out here. The beam of his headlamp makes the forest feel narrow and cramped.

He’s sure to keep the path in sight at all times, although he does wander off it from time to time. Ten, fifteen minutes of hiking later, and a flash of moonstone gets caught in his beam. It’s huddled up against the bole of a tree not far from the trail, enshrouded in black and fur. 

Blue steps off the path to investigate. Whatever it is is about his size, and-- does he hear rattling? Is that a faint magical signature he detects? 

He wasn’t truthfully expecting to find anything other than litter and raccoons. Even if this isn’t the monster they’re looking for, it’s someone in need of help. Cautiously but not slowly, he approached.

Blue didn’t have the chance to say anything; his boots crunching in the snow were enough. The stranger twitched with their full body and whirled to face the noise, putting their feet under them in the process.

There was a moment of silence thick enough to cut as the two monsters stared at each other with wide eyes. The stranger looked like they’d been through hell and back, their clothes torn, ash and blood darkening their bones. They both hit each other with checks. The stranger’s (Red’s, his, the check supplied helpfully,) felt like getting shaken down.

And then a sharp pain stabbed Blue just under his right kneecap like an icepick driving in between the bones. That would have been the end of it if not for his unmosterly pain tolerance. 

By the time Blue’s vision came back, Red was already standing. He was still half bent over, clutching at his chest with one hand and directing magic with the other, leaning heavily against the tree. For all that he had instantly pulled out the dirty-pool attacks, he didn’t look scared, and he certainly wasn’t focused.

The next shots were aimed at Blue’s chest. He scrambled, jumpstarting late, hanging on by his fingertips. He called a femur to hand and hit most of them out of the air, swinging it like a baseball bat, and dodged the others.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Blue managed, taking a few hits in the process. Red’s only reaction was landing a jagged bone square in Blue’s shoulder, smaller ones tearing through the ground at his feet, tripping him when he stumbled back. 

Okay, then. Blue called on his magic and focused on the intent to subdue, not to harm. Five HP wasn’t a whole lot of room for error. 

Red fought like was trying more to piss Blue off than to kill him. He looked tired and hurt more than afraid, like he didn’t care how this fight ends so long as he gets to rest.

Blue didn’t notice the flat, wide bone slip in between his fibula and tibia. He was a little busy jumping out of the path of a blaster, his side grazed, clothes burned. He saw Red grimace in effort and the attack twisted hard.

There was a sickening crack and Blue went down. He wasn’t being underestimated. Blue smiled the best he could, turned Red’s soul blue, and--

Red went down too, clutching his chest and curling into himself. His soul felt slick wrapped in Blue’s magic like it was bleeding and sliding apart, and horror struck Blue like a bat to the skull. Red was silent like the pain whited-out his every function. Blue got up on one good leg. 

He crammed the pain into a box and shoved it aside in his mind, limping towards the heap of bone and fur, leaning on a conjured bone and abusing gravity to help him along. Red was trembling worse now, each breath a shallow hiss.

Blue considered calling his brother or Alphys, but… No. He can do this by himself. It’s not like he’s immobilized. Gentle, gentle, gentle, he reached out and slowly, slowly closed gravity magic around Red’s soul, who blacked out as a last-resort self defense. 

He moved Red into his arms and clutched him to his chest so that he could release the magic on his soul, then started to limp home. It was a long fucking walk on a broken leg, but the pain kept him from panicking. About ten steps later, there was a flash of cherry magic and a pained growl as Red threw off the unconsciousness and formed something to stab Blue in the side. 

“You are making this _really_ difficult,” Blue hissed, but the attack went right in between two ribs and barely grazed him. He only held Red closer, tighter, like that would keep his soul from sliding apart.

Thirty agonizing minutes later, he got to his front door and Red was deposited gently on the beaten-up couch. Blue called to the other end of the house, “Stretch, do you know where my crutches are?” Even he could hear the panic in his voice. 

Blue lowered himself to his knees and let the full weight of gravity tether him. Head blank and fingers numb, he brought his phone out from his inventory and called a very good friend. 

Hearts picked up on the fourth ring.

“Yeah, hon?” he said, voice fucked out and groggy from sleep.

“Sorry, um.” Blue takes a deliberate breath. “I'm sorry to wake you, uh, I need help? We need help, there’s… Quick, please.” Now that the adrenaline was waning, the pain was really setting in and the panic was quick on its heels. 

The sound of fabrics rustling, maybe feet hitting the floor. Hearts said something of affirmation, and Blue put the phone down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/cws: general violence (a fight and attempted stabbing), dislocation, some implied sui ideation, injury aggravation, injury going untreated. let me know if i missed anything! 
> 
> hhhhhhhhh im just. trying really hard to let go of making everything perfect? that will ruin my life istg, so im practicing wherever i can to just,, yeah. memento mori lol <33

**Author's Note:**

> t/cws: references to gore pertaining to the mouth and young children, brief suicidal thoughts throughout, mention of bad injuries, tyrannous king, description of care of injuries, blood mentions and descriptions, chaos, edge dies, incredibly brief branding/amputation/rape mention (used metaphorically), some emeto stuff, loss of hope
> 
> i hope you enjoyed!! i love these guys immeasurably and im excited to finally share this with yall. if you leave a comment i'll cry and probably tape it on my wall <3


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